


Like A Morning Star

by LydiaArgent



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Found Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaArgent/pseuds/LydiaArgent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carolina will be damned if she shows up to this festival without a dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Morning Star

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [anneapocalypse‘s](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/) [Carolina dress](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/post/117524546471/fripperiesandfobs-evening-dress-1950-s-from) post. Carolina/Kimball. No big spoilers for season 13, but maybe small ones. Many many and still more thanks to [eponymous-rose](http://eponymous-rose.tumblr.com) for the read-through.

The atmosphere on base has been tense for the last few days. That’s not unusual, Carolina is painfully aware, but this is new. She’d almost call it excitement, a thrumming kind of energy in both the Fed and New Republic soldiers.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to have made its way up to high command.

“You’re being… typically unreasonable!” Doyle shouts.

“That’s rich, really, coming from someone who hasn’t had to manage combat operations a day in his life!”

Carolina looks between the two of them, both nearly out of their chairs on either side of the conference table. The first time this happened, she actually tried to mediate. Now she makes a few notes and enjoys the show. Weirdly enough, it usually results in decent decisions.

“Oh, will we pretend the last month didn’t happen?” Doyle says. “I still maintain we must make every attempt to shore up our resources! Nearly everything useful has been cleared from the peripheral bases, so it stands to reason that if we prioritize a heavily occupied–”

“We are not conducting a raid on a well-guarded mercenary base.” Kimball’s voice is flat, full of steel. “Our people are more valuable than equipment. If we ration stringently–”

“Oh, rationing, there’s a new idea.”

“Excuse me?” Carolina interjects. “There’s a few things on the agenda that we might be able to take care of quickly, and then we can get back to this.” The length of Kimball and Doyle’s meetings-cum-shouting matches is reaching legend status. “I think a few people are waiting in the hallway.”

Doyle rests his forehead in his hands. Kimball tips her head back over the chair. “Of course. Let’s make sure they get their time.”

The meeting secretary opens the door and calls the first representative from the hallway. The first two soldiers come with fairly typical requests for consideration; a re-arrangement of the training schedule, a better way to keep Grif out of the mess hall.

“If that man ever learns to pick locks, we’re sending him off-planet,” Kimball says, and Carolina snorts.

“You just let me know,” she says. “I’ve got some experience with tricky lockpicks.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” Carolina can hear Kimball’s grin.

The memory should hurt more, maybe. But it’s dulled by time, and by the people sitting with her around a flimsy table. Tucker and Wash are somehow managing to communicate by making faces at each other through their helmets (some of which even seem marginally relevant to the discussion). Grif’s definitely asleep, and Simmons is either trying to kick him awake under the table or has a really uncomfortable itch. Sarge seems to be trying to talk with the Sasha, the secretary, about his idea for a laser that turns mercenaries into squashable bugs. She managing to firmly ignore him so far.

Freckles is distracting Caboose somewhere else. For the best, really, although Carolina’s extremely fond of the confetti.

They’re her team now. Months with Epsilon had let her get too confident, ready to believe she could do the vigilante justice thing and fix the galaxy. But she’s always done better with a team at her back. Chorus is in the middle of a war, outgunned, outmaneuvered, and Carolina can’t remember the last time she was happier.

She watches Kimball scroll through her datapad. “We’ve got one more?”

Lieutenant Andersmith walks in and opens with, “I am honored that you are considering our request, sirs.” His voice resonates, echoes really, in around the room.

The Fed soldier next to him seems a little embarrassed and kind of in awe, which is how a lot of people tend to act around Smith. “Yes, thank you,” she says. “We wanted to discuss the possibility of a Lunar Festival here on base.”

Kimball and Doyle both perk up.

“I’d completely forgotten,” Kimball says, surprised and maybe a little delighted.

“We believe it would be an excellent opportunity to foster unity and cooperation,” Smith starts, but it’s obvious he’s preaching to the choir.

“I say, it has been a while,” Doyle murmurs, flipping through a calendar. “When is it this year?”

“This weekend,” Sasha chimes in.

The room has the same kind of energy Carolina’s been getting from the base all week – animated and nervous. Carolina shares a glance with Wash, who shrugs.

Kimball’s drumming her fingers on the table. “We’re running low on resources,” she says, thoughtful rather than critical. “We’ll have to get creative.”

“Consider the planning done,” Smith says. His voice is steady as usual, but he’s almost bouncing on his toes. “Althea and I will take care of everything.”

“We’ve got a few ideas, but we’re of course open to input.” It couldn’t be more obvious that she’s grinning under her helmet.

“Feel free to use the training hall as a venue,” Kimball says, and Doyle nods. “We’ll make an official announcement later today.”

Smith and Althea salute smartly and head out of the room. When the door closes, Doyle leans back and whistles.

“Lunar Festival,” he says, the weight of nostalgia drawing the words out. He slants a glance at Kimball. “Would you reconsider the supply run so we’ll at least have a sufficient supply of gunpowder?”

Carolina’s jaw almost drops when Kimball laughs, loud and bright. “Gunpowder I can make. I’d better get started if we’re going to have enough.”

“Enough gunpowder for what?” Wash’s voice rises in pitch, totally bewildered.

“Firecrackers, of course!” Doyle chuckles to himself. “Perhaps even fireworks?”

Kimball snorts. “It’s not like we’re going to give away our position. There will definitely be fireworks.”

“Oh my god,” Wash says.

“It’s tradition,” Kimball leans to clap Wash on the shoulder. “It’s also fun. I hope you’re familiar with the concept.”

“Very funny.” Wash pushes himself to his feet. “Someone can fill me in later. I’ll never hear the end of it if I’m late for training.”

Everyone starts to drift out of the room. It doesn’t feel like the end of a typical planning meeting, sullen silence and bad feeling even when they’ve all managed to reach some good decisions. People are chatting, about food and clothes and Carolina hears something about a circus, which is mildly worrying.

“So,” she says, falling into step with Kimball as she leaves the room. “All I’ve got right now is ‘party’ and 'explosives.'”

Kimball nods. “That’s the gist of it.”

She sounds so pleased. The intensity and pragmatism that make Kimball a great general are still there, but she’s easy in a way Carolina hasn’t seen before. Her steps are a little slower, her arms swing more readily at her side.

Well, Carolina’s used to being a buzzkill when she has to be.

“Is it a good idea to have a party when we’re in the middle of a war?”

Carolina braces herself against Kimball’s sigh. “Yes, Carolina. I think it is.”

Kimball holds open the door to her small office. Carolina sits in the fragile visitor’s seat, and Kimball drags her own chair around the desk to sit close.

“The Lunar Festival is unique to Chorus,” Kimball starts. “Every planet has solstices or equinoxes, but we have our moons.”

“Plural?” Carolina asks. She’s seen the one, huge in the sky at night, fractured surface just overhead.

“Plural,” Kimball confirms. “Two, in fact. They’re locked in orbit so that we only see one in the night sky at a time. And next week, they switch.”

“Which naturally leads to a party,” Carolina says, dubious.

Kimball laughs. “People have been celebrating celestial events forever. Chorus has always been small, out on the edge of nowhere. You’re from Earth, right? You might call it our independence day.”

“Something that’s yours,” Carolina says, nodding. “Makes sense, that a colony would want that kind of identity.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Kimball says, wryly. “But yes. And as far as I’m aware, it hasn’t been celebrated since the war officially broke out.”

“Ah,” Carolina says, and leans back in her chair. “Wow.”

“Yes, wow. This is big.” Kimball clasps hers hands together between her knees. “This is really big.”

“It’s what you’ve been fighting for,” Carolina says. Kimball stares, and Carolina wishes she knew how to bite her tongue.

“Yes,” Kimball sighs, her fingers loosening their grip. “That’s exactly it.”

“I’m happy to run security,” Carolina starts, but the words are barely out of her mouth before Kimball is shaking her head.

“Absolutely not. We’ll have to have some shifts, of course, but you’re not spending your first Lunar Festival in armor. Not on my watch.”

Carolina’s mind snags on the word 'first,’ but she says, “Really? I’ll dig out my prom dress, then.”

“It wouldn’t be out of place,” Kimball says. “It can be quite the occasion.”

“I’ve got armor or training clothes,” Carolina admits.

“Oh. Right.” Kimball sounds a little sheepish. She knocks her foot into Carolina’s. “Whatever you’ve got is fine; the clothes aren’t the point.”

“If you want me there, I’m there. Even in shitty sweats.”

“You know that I do.” Kimball stands, pulls her chair back around her desk, and sighs when she sees her datapad. “I should get back to work.”

“So should I,” Carolina says, ignoring the rush of warmth. “Wouldn’t want Wash letting your soldiers get soft. See you at dinner?” she asks as she lets herself out of the office.

Kimball glances down at the stack of work in front of her but says, “Of course. Have a good day, Carolina.” The door clicks shut.

Carolina walks away knowing exactly one thing: she’s going to get a damn dress.

*

Carolina corners Jensen after training.

“Lieutenant, a word?”

“Of, of course!” Jensen manages something like a salute while she jogs after Carolina to an empty corner of the room. “Anything I can do!”

“I really hope you mean that,” Carolina mutters. “I don’t suppose you’d have an idea where I could get my hands on something to wear to the festival?”

Jensen is speechless for a moment, and Carolina’s about to tell her to forget about this whole conversation. But then Jensen coughs, kind of choking, and Carolina sighs.

“I, uh, think I might?” she manages to say when she gets her breath back. “My, um, my friend, my girlfriend, she’s kind of your height.” Carolina thinks Jensen might find a way to actually blush through her helmet. “And she’s got some civilian clothes. I can check with her, if that would help?”

“It would be very helpful,” Carolina says. “Thank you. And I would appreciate it if you could keep this quiet.” Epsilon’s been with Tucker and Emily lately, working on alien-related research. If she ever wants to be left in peace again, those are maybe the last three people she needs finding out about this.

Whatever 'this’ ends up being.

“A secret’s safe with me!” Jensen lisps earnestly. “Oh, dear.” She digs a rag out of her armor and starts unsealing her visor.

Carolina decides to leave her to it.

*

She gets on a note on her datapad during lunch the next day. It’s from an encrypted address, giving only a wing of the base, a room number, and a time. Carolina stares, idly wondering if this is the worst attempt at a trap she’s ever seen, when she realizes the wing is mostly used to house New Republic troops.

Carolina knocks at exactly 2100 that night. Jensen cracks the door peers through before waving Carolina in.

She and Volleyball – Shailaja, Carolina corrects herself, but she’s grateful the girl’s tall enough to fit the nickname – have managed to clear out their roommates. Their helmets are off and the forearms are bare, as relaxed as Carolina has seen anyone on base.

Shailaja’s sitting on the edge of a bunk, the blanket next to her rumpled from where Jensen must have been. “This is all very dramatic,” she says, just short of laughing.

“I did ask for quiet,” Carolina admits, and Jensen blushes.

“Was the encryption too much?” she worries, and slides down to sit on the floor. Carolina shakes her head.

“Nope. I made it here.”

“And you’re here for a dress,” Shai says, clapping her hands together.

“Have anything that might fit?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, smirking. “I won’t know until you get that armor off.”

“Really?” Carolina sighs. Shai waggles her fingers at Carolina. “Oh, all right.”

It’s strange, taking her armor off on base. Regulations don’t explicitly forbid it, but it sets off Carolina’s alarm bells. When she glances up, and Katie and Shai are grinning at her like this is the most exciting thing to happen to them in months. Carolina knows that’s not true, because last week she watched Katie drive a Warthog through a guarded merc base carrying a cheering and gun-happy Shai on the back. She sternly tells herself to chill out, and lays the parts neatly on the floor at the end of the bed.

Jensen and Shai look her up and down. Carolina crosses her arms. Jensen looks intimidated, but Shai purses her lips.

“I think I have something that might work,” she says. “How do you feel about strapless? You’ve got the whole,” she waves a hand up and down, “one-woman gun show thing going on.”

Carolina grins. “As long as it stays up.” She leans against the foot of the bed. “How many dresses do you have, anyway?”

“A few,” Shai says, bending to pull a footlocker out from under the bunk. “Mostly my sister’s. Lucky I managed to save them, really.”

Carolina knows what the civil war has done to Chorus, to its population. She’s read the reports. It’s not nearly what was done to its people. A few managed to save a necklace, an old shirt, a book with a note on the inside of the cover. Carolina can’t imagine what it took to keep a case full of dresses, but it’s definitely more than luck.

Jensen runs her fingers along Shai’s ankle, almost graceful. Shai smiles down at her before she open the box and starts digging through it.

“She always had too many clothes,” Shai says. “She’d be glad someone’s wearing them.”

She draws out a length of teal fabric, stands to let it unfold to brush the floor. Carolina feels her breath leave her in a rush.

It’s more a gown than a dress, the skirt full and rustling as it brushes the floor. The top is stitched with small beads and delicate sequins curling into waves and branches, shimmering even under the shitty fluorescent lights.

Shai cranes her neck, looking between Carolina’s face and the dress. “Too much?”

“Definitely,” Carolina says, laughing. “I love it.”

“Yeah? It’s your color,” Jensen says. Carolina rolls her eyes, but it’s true.

“The last time I dressed up,” she says, reaching to let the chiffon slide over her fingers, “I was trying to raise money for an experimental military unit.”

Even in the middle of war, she’d had to look nice, presentable for the politicians who the Project depended on for funding and support. But this dress isn’t professional; it’s glamorous.

When Carolina looks up, Jensen and Shai are staring at her dubiously. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Point is that I didn’t get to wear anything like this.”

“Chorus style went through a big retro thing a while ago. But at the Lunar Festival, there’s no such thing as too much,” Shai says, and hands Carolina the dress. “Hold it up!”

Carolina raises the bodice to her chest. The fabric falls to her feet, and she laughs again when Shai lifts the full skirt to the side and lets it pour down over her legs. The teal chiffon flows like water.

“You sure it’s okay if I borrow it?” Carolina asks.

Shai waves her off. “Of course! It’s just been gathering dust.”

“So,” Katie says, sounding almost innocent. “It’s nice that you’re dressing up for this.”

“Yeah, figured I should.”

Shai’s looking carefully at the wall over Carolina’s shoulder. Carolina looks suspiciously between the two of them. “There a reason I shouldn’t be?”

“No!” Jensen yelps.

Carolina turns to Shai, who just shrugs, before focusing on the easy target. “Jensen, there something I should know about?”

“I don’t, just, you and Kimball seem to be getting along really well?” She squeaks it as a question. “And she seems, I don’t know…”

“Way less stressed,” Shai offers.

Carolina’s way too old to be having to control a blush like this, but she does her damn best.

“That’s good,” she says. “I should probably go. Thank you for the dress.” She starts the process of putting her armor back on.

Shai waves her off. “It’s supposed to be worn.”

Carolina folds it carefully in half, so the beading is sheltered, won’t catch and tear on her armor when she drapes it over her arm. “I’ll take care of it”

*

The base hums as usual with training, planning, and weapons distribution, but now with added discussion of buffets, whether decorating the training hall with strands of spent shell casings is too morbid, and who’s bootlegging the liquor. The cook is seen chasing Grif from the kitchen four times in two days, the last time waving a very solid looking ladle.

“I smelled chocolate!” Grif shrieks. “Don’t tell me you don’t have chocolate; don’t lie to me like that!”

“I expect you to run like this during training!” Wash shouts after him.

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Carolina shakes her head.

“It’s going to happen,” Wash says darkly.

“Not today. I’m heading to dinner before Grif recovers.”

“Got your usual date?”

“Ha, ha.” Carolina slings her gun over her back and jogs off.

“I mostly wasn’t joking!” Wash yells after her.

The dining hall isn’t too crowded this early in the evening, and Carolina’s wait for her food is quick. Kimball is sitting in their usual spot, the end of a table set at the back of the room. Her fork is full of pasta, hovering just over her plate while she glares at something on her datapad.

“I can guarantee you this isn’t going to taste any better cold,” Carolina says, sliding into her seat.

Kimball puts the food in her mouth without looking up. “It’s not a culinary masterpiece warm.”

“Do not let the cook hear you say that. Grif pissed her off a little while ago.”

Kimball snorts and looks up from her datapad, smiling slightly. “Noted.” She sets her work to the side, but keeps glancing at it, distracted.

Carolina knows better than to tell Kimball when to take a break. But she can try and make things easier.

“What’s going on?” she asks, pointing at the dark screen.

Kimball grabs it and flicks it back to life. “What do you know about prison ship life support systems?”

The table fills up while they talk. The Reds and Blues, a few other soldiers sit around them, all pressed for space in the urban military base. The comforting buzz of conversation gets louder as the room fills. All the talk Carolina can hear is about the festival. There’s a lot of awkward shuffling and high fives, so some people at least are getting dates. People are moving back and forth between tables, handing off shoes and skirts and the occasional bow tie.

Carolina can’t keep her mind off the dress hanging alone in her closet. Making sure it’s safe has become part of her routine in the evening. It would be great to believe she’s just being very careful with someone else’s treasured belonging, but she’s unfortunately too self aware for that.

Carolina hasn’t had a home in a very long time. There was a house in the southern United States, with a wrap-around porch that she’d sprawl out on to watch storms. A house too big for two people, apparently, and that had been that. She’d thought, maybe for a minute, that she had people on the Mother of Invention who could make it a home.

Chorus is coming back from the brink of environmental catastrophe, littered with ancient alien relics, and has a decent chance of descending back into political turmoil or civil war. Carolina really doesn’t want to leave.

She brings herself back to the conversation, which has moved on to tactics for taking a strategic merc-held base at the head of an agricultural valley.

“The whole thing’s vulnerable if we can take out the primary power supply–”

“You mean the on the roof?” Carolina taps the screen. “And who are you going to get to find a way back down from ten stories up?”

“You’re not willing to jump?” Kimball asks.

“Huh,” Carolina zooms in further on the schematic.

“No, oh my god, that was a joke! Give that back, right now please.”

Carolina laughs and tugs back on the data pad.

Then there’’s the other reason Carolina wants to stay. Somewhere along the line, she missed learning to tell the difference between 'I want you to lead my troops and keep me company while I pretend to not work through dinner’ and 'I want to kiss you’. She’s always been pretty crap at this, but it hasn’t ever seemed to matter so much.

“Are you, uh, are you still going to wear that dress?” Jensen walks by carrying an empty tray.

Carolina blinks. “Yeah, I am. See you at the party.”

*

Carolina gathers her hair at the crown of her head, the nape of her neck, lets it fall around her shoulders. She then repeats the process several times and tells the small mirror, “I’m not 16 fucking years old.”

“Excellent! That corroborates all of my physical and psychosocial data on you.” Emily Grey peers around the edge of Carolina’s door. “Oh my goodness! Look at you!”

Carolina turns, a little self-conscious as the skirt swirls around her ankles to show her combat boots.

“I never realized you picked your armor color to be flattering,” Emily says, moving quickly in a circle around Carolina.

“I didn’t,” Carolina can barely get the words out before Emily’s fingers are at her bangs.

“Hm, maybe split the difference? Put it half up?” she says. “I’m not sure, hair’s never been my thing!”

Carolina gently swats Emily’s hand away and gets a little distance. Emily’s in a deep red dress that falls to her knees, but it’s her face that catches Carolina’s attention. Her lips match her dress perfectly, sharp edges coming to a bow. The smooth black lines around her eyes form perfect points just short of her temples.

“Wow,” Carolina says.

“Thanks! Surgeon’s hands,” Emily says, waggling her fingers in Carolina’s face. “Oh! Do you want me to do yours?”

“Maybe,” Carolina waves her hands vaguely, “Not so much. But yeah, that’d be great.” She wants to give the dress the display it deserves.

“I’m so excited!” Emily squeals. “Let me go get my things. I’ll be right back!”

Carolina sits perfectly still while Emily moves brushes over her skin. She ignores the tickle of powder, follows instructions to blink or rub her lips together. Emily spends the time telling her about Lunar Festivals from when she was young.

“The other kids on my block had no imagination. Store-bought fireworks, can you imagine! When we had a whole shelf of the school library about chemistry! It is not my fault that some buildings aren’t quite up to fire code. No moving!”

Carolina carefully lowers the eyebrow she’d raised.

Sooner than Carolina was expecting, Emily says, “Okay, all done! Take a look at your new face!”

“Coming from you, that’s kind of terrifying.” Emily laughs, and Carolina grabs her small mirror.

It’s good, better than she’d expected from someone who’s general idea of style is “Make sure I can get bloodstains out of it!” Carolina’s eyelids are sort of glittery pink, and lined in a deep gold. She licks her lips, the gloss on them sheer red and a little sticky.

“Strawberry?” she asks.

“Looks good, yeah? And it’s practical!”

“Thanks for this,” Carolina says.

“What are friends for?” Emily chirps. “You ready for a party?”

Carolina smiles. “One minute.” She throws a few pins in her hair, enough to keep it out of her face. It’ll do. “All right, let’s head out.”

The corridors are normally filled with people, but the sound now is totally different. Voices unobstructed by armor bounce around the hallways, and metallic footfalls are replaced by the pad of dress shoes and the click of heels. Carolina hasn’t seen most of the soldiers out of armor, and she stares around, trying to put faces to familiar movements and voices.

Music from the training hall drifts out to the corridor, something with drums and brass and a quick beat. Carolina makes it through the double doors and stares around the room. A huge table is piled with bowls of lentils and rice, platters of root vegetables, and even a few plates of fresh fruit. Someone managed to find enough scrap paper to make chains that drape around the ceiling. Carolina squints up and hopes no one found their way into the old hard-copy military files.

But it’s not her job to worry about that tonight. She skirts the edge of the main floor, where a few people are already dancing. Tucker’s trying to drag Wash away from the wall, yelling “Not dancing at a party is not an option! Put leg day to some fucking use!”

She waves to the lieutenants, standing in a group at the edge of the dance floor. There’s an enormous bowl of bright punch at the end of the buffet. Carolina scoops herself a glass, takes a sip, and almost chokes. People were not kidding about the bootlegged liquor.

Kimball comes into the room. Doyle’s with her, Carolina’s aware, but that’s irrelevant information right now because Kimball is wearing loose black pants and a deep green button down that makes her skin glow. A gray vest hugs her waist. She brushes her long, thin braids back over her shoulder, and looks around the room with a huge, bright smile.

Carolina drains her glass quickly and drops it on the table.

She makes her way over to Kimball, but it’s easy to think of her as Vanessa right now, when she’s looking Carolina up and down as she gets close. Her eyes going a little wide, and Carolina says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you lost, ma'am?” She lets Vanessa look confused for a second before she adds, “Because heaven is a long way from here.”

Vanessa’s mouth drops open, and then she throws her head back to laugh. Carolina grins back, a little helpless and definitely determined determined to see Vanessa laugh like that again. It’s captivating, getting to see her face light up.

Vanessa turns a smirk back on Carolina and very deliberately looks her up and down. “No, I think I walked right in to heaven.”

Carolina gapes until Tucker calls out “Bow chicka bow wow!” from the dance floor.

“How the hell does he alway do that?” Kimball mutters. “Anyway, you look amazing, Carolina.”

“Thanks.” She cocks her hip, letting the dress swish lightly. “It was a team effort.”

“All the best things are. They help you with your pick-up lines, too?”

“That’s all me,” she gloats. “And, you look incredible. Really.”

Kimball tugs a little at her vest. “Thank you.” She glances over Carolina’s shoulder. “We may have an audience.”

Carolina looks back, and a lot of people suddenly find the ceiling very interesting.

She turns to Kimball and smiles wide. “You want to give them a show?”

Kimball hold out her hand. Carolina twines their fingers together and pulls Kimball along to dance.

She loses track of time in the rhythm of Vanessa’s movements so close to her own. Vanessa lets her fingers move carefully over the beading of the dress to rest at the small over Carolina’s back. She’s a little unsteady in her heels, and Carolina happily takes some over her weight.

“Who is ready for definitely safe explosions?!” Sarge calls out from the top of the ladder to the roof. The sun set at some point, and everyone files up for the show, laughing and tossing back inconvenient shoes and purses.

The night hits Carolina’s shoulders, a shock of cold against the sheen on her skin. Everyone packs in close. She can feel Kimball breathing next to her.

The first firework goes off with a whistle and deafening bang. It feels within reach, so close overhead that Carolina can see the cardboard scraps fall to the ground. They come in quick succession after that, shimmering lights that burn bright and are quickly replaced.

Kimball wraps her arms around Carolina’s waist. “This okay?” she asks, warm and close.

“This is perfect.”


End file.
